“These two gentlemen,” said Dr. Peters, “are very thoroughly frozen. I suggest we leave them here until the lab team can see them, too. There’s certainly no harm in that, as long as they get here fairly soon.”
“They should be here in a couple of hours,” said Art.
“That long,” said Dr. Peters, pulling off his gloves. “Well, we have to defrost them before we can do much else … no matter. That’ll take twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”
“Damn,” I said, pretty much to myself. “That long?”
“Just about the same formula you’d use to thaw a frozen turkey before Thanksgiving.” He grinned. “Don’t worry, Carl,” he said. “I’ll X-ray the heads as soon as we get them to a machine. Most of the information you’ll need right away should be available then.
“The heads should thaw a little quicker than the rest of them, as well,” he said.
“Freezing going to affect the tissues … the tests?” asked Lamar.
“Oh, sure. But not in an appreciable fashion. Burst cell walls won’t prevent toxicology testing, for instance.” Dr. Peters smiled. He looked around. “It’s fairly obvious they weren’t killed here. Any ideas?”
I told him what I’d seen in the house.
“Very good news,” said Dr. Peters. “I’ll need to take a look inside, then.” He glanced at me. “The heat was on in there?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, excellent,” said Dr. Peters.
“Let’s hurry up,” said Art, “I’m freezing to death.”
“Next time,” said Lamar, dryly, “maybe you could wear a real coat…”
We went into the house via the kitchen door, and were very careful not to disturb any evidence. If it had just been a burglary scene, nobody would have gone in again until the lab team got there. But it was important for the homicide investigators to see the scene in the least disturbed state possible. That outweighed the lab requirements.
I walked Dr. Peters through the path I’d taken in the house. He agreed that the carpet stain could well be a bloodstain that had been cleaned up. The hole in the wall he didn’t want to speculate on, but the diameter looked about right for a .22 caliber round. The small dried puddle on top of the water cooler was, to the best of his knowledge, blood.
Dr. Peters had to leave, as he had to autopsy a questioned death victim in Manchester. He said that he’d do ours as soon as the bodies were warmed sufficiently.
“X rays first,” he said. “And I’ll be in touch with the lab team.”
We waited in the house for the mobile lab, who arrived about half an hour after Dr. Peters left. They’d made remarkable time.
We showed the lab team the area we were most interested in, and then did an initial inspection of the rest of the house, as a preliminary, and to make sure we weren’t overlooking anything that could be of primary importance. We didn’t find anything useful.
What we did find was a normal home, with two possible exceptions. First, there were two PCs in the back bedroom. Both were on and running. Many farms were equipped with computers, so their mere presence wasn’t unusual. The monitors, of course, were in the “rest mode,” and I couldn’t see what was on the screens. But, as I looked, the hard drive light on one of them flickered, and the faint buzz told me that the hard drive was being accessed for some reason. Running, all right. My first thought was of an elaborate security system. I didn’t touch them, being a little reluctant to activate an alarm. I also thought that an alarm system might explain one of them being on. But two? Maybe one as a backup? Legally, I couldn’t even turn the screens on, as materials contained within the machines had the same constitutional protections as to privacy as anything else. I did make a mental note to ask Lamar why these were so much newer than our department machines. Curious.
The second possible exception was an extensive library, in the upper floor of the older portion of the house. Long shelves of computer books, weapons books, explosives manuals, an escape and evasion manual, and books on subjects such as the inner workings of the IRS, and countersurveillance practices. There were books describing conspiracies of several sorts, along with survivalist manuals, surviving Y2K, anti-federal government pamphlets, do-it-yourself legal volumes with emphasis on how to beat the IRS, the common law, and books on military history. Some of the latter volumes I had on my shelves at home. This little library was quite extensive, however, and tended toward the how-to end of the materials. On the table there were maps of North America, the United States, and Iowa, all shaded in a variety of colors in various areas, with no key. Some had arrows in red, some in blue, some both. Fascinating, like I said.
We had known for years that Cletus tended toward the vocal right wing, but this stuff was quite a bit more antigovernment than I’d expected.
The only possibility of additional evidence was the discovery of bedclothes in the dryer. They appeared freshly laundered. The reason that was considered possible evidence of “something” was that a woman on the lab team named Mary thought it unlikely that the wife in such a clean and tidy house would leave on an extended vacation without folding and putting away the laundry. She was probably right, but just try explaining that to the males on a jury.
The lab crew said right away that the dark areas I’d uncovered on the carpet did contain traces of blood. They also said that whoever had cleaned them up had done an exceptional job. Same for the area on the wall that looked to have been wiped clean.
A preliminary test confirmed Dr. Peters’s judgment about the dried pool of blood on the top of the water heater.
This was a phase of the investigation that could easily lose the case. You not only had to locate and carefully examine all items of evidence, you had to preserve them in such a way that a defense team could conduct their own examinations. That took much, much time.
It looked like the lab team would be there for several hours. Lamar used the radio to order food brought to the farm. Great idea. About a minute later, Deputy Willis called from the end of the lane. The owner, Cletus Borglan, was here.
He was about medium height and build, in his middle fifties. He was fit, from working as opposed to working out. He also had a loud voice, which he was using. Not particularly angry. Just loud.
“Damn, Lamar! What’s goin’ on here? Why the little army at my farm?” He was standing in the kitchen doorway, and was using a voice that would enable him to be heard in the machine shed.
“Been a problem,” said Lamar.
“So I hear,” said Cletus, loudly. “What are cops doin’ on my property in the first place?”
“We’re investigating a murder,” said Lamar.
“What? How the hell can there be a murder here when there’s nobody home?” He headed toward the archway, louder as he went. “What the hell are they doin’ to my carpet?”
I was by the archway, and just stepped sideways into his path. “Sorry,” I said. “You can’t go in there just yet. They’re not…” I was going to say “done.”
“Who the hell are you to tell me that I can’t go in there?” Very loud, but he’d stopped.
“Calm down, Clete,” said Lamar. “Like I said, we’re here on a murder investigation.”
Cletus spun around to face Lamar. “And I said, ‘How the hell can there be a murder here if there’s NOBODY HOME?’!”
Lamar stood his ground, and I stepped one step closer behind Cletus.
“Like I been trying to tell you,” began Lamar, patiently, “one of my officers had a reason to come here, and look for somebody. He found who he was looking for, but not alive.”
Cletus cut him off. “What happened? One of you guys get killed trespassing on a farm again?”
Lamar went white, and I suspect I did, too. Cletus was referring to an incident about five miles from his house, where Lamar had gotten shot and Civil Deputy Bud had been killed, attempting to serve a notice on a farmer and his wife. Our people had not been, of course, trespassing.
The outrageousness of the statement had La
mar temporarily speechless. Cletus, too, for he knew he had gone too far. Before he could try to make amends, though, Lamar spoke up.
“You stupid son of a bitch,” said Lamar, quiet but not quite controlled. “Don’t ever say anything like that again. Ever. You got that? Ever.”
“I’m sorry, Lamar,” said Cletus, still too loud, and not quite sincerely. “It was out of line. I didn’t mean that.”
Well, there it was, though. He’d thought it, and he’d said it, and that was that. Lamar looked at me and said, “You deal with him. I’m gonna step outside for a minute.”
Thanks, boss. Thanks a lot.
“Why don’t you have a seat at the kitchen table, Cletus,” I said. “You quiet down, and I’ll tell you some of what’s going on.”
He turned and looked at me, his face a bit redder than it had been when he first arrived. He said nothing, just walked over to the table, and sat. Then, “What’s this country coming to when a man’s ordered around in his own house?” He said it almost softly, like he was talking to himself. Almost, but not really. The softness made it deniable, though, if he were to be called on it.
“Just get a handle on it, Cletus,” I said. “Things happen for a reason.”
“It’s my house. What’d you do if I just said to get off my property? Huh? It’s MY property.”
“Well, Cletus,” I said, sitting across the table from him, “first I’d tell you that we have the right to investigate the crime without interference.” I kept my voice soft and low, forcing him to listen.
“Bullshit.” This was a little louder again. “What were you doing here in the first place?”
“And,” I said, “if you persisted, I’d charge you with Interference with Official Acts.”
“On my own property?” His voice was rising. “That’s pure bullshit!”
Time to change tactics. “Look, Cletus,” I said. “Suppose you invited some guys over for a poker game, you lost, got pissed off, and shot all of ’em. You actually think that the courts would allow you to say, ‘It’s my property, you can’t come here’? I don’t think so.”
He didn’t answer.
“So, if you want to calm down, I’ll tell you as much as I can about what’s going on.”
Cletus looked me right in the eye. “Okay. Let’s hear it.” Very calm. Very matter-of-fact. It crossed my mind that Cletus had been raising hell for effect. Why? I had no idea. Sometimes people were just like that. Bluster, then calm.
Just as I was starting, Lamar came back in, fixed Cletus with a cold stare, and then moved over to the lab people. He didn’t say anything, but Cletus was a little cowed for a few seconds.
I told Cletus Borglan just about everything I knew, with some important exceptions. I left out all reference to Fred. I just said we’d been informed that there’d been a burglary. I didn’t describe how the victims had been shot. While I was telling him the details, he got up, went to the sink, and began making a pot of coffee. Being cool. He stood with his hips resting against the kitchen counter as he listened. When the coffee was done, he poured himself a cup, opened the refrigerator to get some milk, sat down, and took a long sip. He just looked at me, and smiled.
“My hired man is up here all the time. How come he didn’t find no burglary? Care to explain that?”
“Don’t know him, Cletus. Maybe that’s something you should ask him about.” I was unhappy about not being offered coffee. “You got an alarm system or anything?”
“Didn’t think I’d need one. What with all you on the county payroll.”
Because of Cletus and his attitude, the agent in charge of the lab crew decided that they better stay at the house until everything was done, rather than try to get past Cletus in the morning. The rest of us stayed right along with them.
That was all right. I was there when the bodies were removed, and saw a complete nonreaction from Cletus Borglan. In the dark, with the stark lights, the black hearses, the frost and snow, and all the officers and agents present, it was quite a scene. As I said to Lamar, it was too bad we didn’t get a picture. It would have looked great on the Office Christmas Card next year.
I ended up back in the office, sitting alone at my desk about 0445, typing my preliminary report. It helps to do that. Organizes your thoughts. Sure. Well, in this case, there was damned little to organize. Fred let ’em off. They didn’t come back. Who but Fred even knew they were there? Nobody.
Before I left the office, I left a note: ANYBODY WITH 43 ON FRED GROTHLER, A.K.A. GOOBER, LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE. 10-43 is cop talk for information.
I got home at 0547. It was amazingly cold. Minus forty-four degrees in still air. That’s about thirty degrees colder than the temperature in your home freezer. The air was so still the smoke from the chimneys was just standing in straight lines. All the moisture had been frozen and precipitated out of the atmosphere, and the little frozen crystals were all over everything. I stuck my head in the door, and called out to my wife, softly, “Sue?” No answer. She was upstairs, sleeping. She was going to have to miss this.
I couldn’t resist. I went to the sink, filled a large plastic cup with hot water, and rushed back outside. I heaved the contents of the glass up into the air … It dissipated in a puff, and was gone. Nothing came back down. I love to do that. I made four more trips, all with the same result. Just cold enough. It made my day. I was almost tempted to wake Sue … almost. She’s pretty tolerant, but there are limits…
Six
Tuesday, January 13, 1998, 0758
Art and Lamar had decided to have a meeting of the investigative crew before the lab unit left for Des Moines. Swell. I hadn’t even gotten to bed when they called. According to Lamar, both he and Art thought I’d better attend. Right. I’m sure Art did.
I’d just finished explaining to Sue that I’d been up all night, that we had a murder, and that she’d missed the experiment with the water in the air.
“Well, now you can get some sleep,” she said, pulling her sweater over her head, and continuing to dress for school.
“Don’t think so. That was the office, and they want me to be back in about an hour or so.”
She stopped fastening her earrings, and turned to face me. “I don’t want to sound mean, but you’re getting too old to stay up twenty-four hours a day.”
“Eh?” I cupped my ear.
“I said …” She stopped. “It’s not funny.”
As I came through the office door, I smelled fresh pastries. Great. I’m on a fairly strict low-fat diet. I stomped my feet to shake off the snow. I had on the same lace-up boots as yesterday, but was dressed in blue jeans, sweatshirt, and my own parka. Fortified with long Johns, of course. It had warmed up, but was still minus fifteen or so. And, I admit it, I wanted to be in plain clothes just to prove to Art that I wasn’t a “uniform.” Ego. Always seems to be there when you don’t need it.
Everybody was in the jail kitchen, seated around a long, industrial-sized folding table that had been in the kitchen since the 1950s. The initials of many prisoners were scratched into its top, along with a reasonably good checkerboard on one of the corners. Sort of a department heirloom. I grabbed a doughnut and some coffee, and sat down.
Lamar told us that the phones had been ringing like crazy since about midnight, with the media getting all worked up. So far, they hadn’t put in a physical appearance, but he was pretty sure they’d be here by ten or so. Lamar hated media people, primarily because he was self-conscious. He also hated them because they seemed incapable of getting a story straight. He tended to leave terse, handwritten statements for the duty dispatcher to read to whoever called. He handed us all copies of his most recent effort.
THE BODIES OF TWO MALE SUBJECTS WERE DISCOVERED ON THE CLETUS BORGLAN FARM YESTERDAY. BOTH WERE FROZEN, THE CASE BEING TREATED AS A MURDER.
Great. I started to laugh, and drew a heavy stare from the boss.
“Jesus, Lamar,” I finally got out. “You want to reword this?”
“What?” Gruffly
, at best.
“Well, maybe you could put in something about the cause of death being undetermined at this time?” I grinned. “Otherwise, it sounds like they were killed by Jack Frost.”
He looked at the note, and his eyes twinkled a little. “Write in the change,” he said.
Lamar then announced that he’d talked to the two officers who had the responsibility to do the residence checks at the Borglan place. They had not had any tire tracks or foot tracks in the lane for the last eight to ten days.
The first case item of importance was Art’s announcement that he had “ordered up” an Iowa National Guard helicopter for sometime today, hopefully to arrive before noon. He wanted to “scope out” the snowmobile tracks from the air. I just loved it when he used cop talk like that. He was the sort of guy who wouldn’t say to his wife, “I always miss you, dear.” Instead, he’d say, “I miss you, twenty-four-seven.” But it was a good idea. I dearly wished we had resources like that in our department.
“I don’t know what they have available,” he said, “so I’m not sure how many of you will get to go up.” Leaving absolutely no doubt that he would be in the chopper, regardless.
Over the years, I’ve flown a few times in Iowa Guard choppers, and knew we had a choice of two types: the OH-58, which held four; and the UH-1H, which held ten or more, and was called a Huey. I really hoped for a Huey
Art said Dr. Peters was going to X-ray the two heads in Manchester in about an hour. The bodies were still thawing, or “defrosting,” as he had put it. He said they were apparently able to remove the clothing by now, so the clothes had been seized, bagged, labeled, and would be relayed to the lab in Des Moines.
Next, the lab team had made several interesting confirmations at the house. The small hole in the wall appeared to be made by a .22 caliber bullet. They hadn’t found any shell casing yet. But it was a fairly good bet that it had been deflected by one of the Colsons’ heads, and was not traveling point-first when it hit the plaster.
The Big Thaw Page 6